


the sky holds its breath

by theappleppielifestyle



Series: the language we made up one night [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5270678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theappleppielifestyle/pseuds/theappleppielifestyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not worried,” Dorian says. “I can handle it.”</p><p><i>You shouldn’t have to.</i> Leto doesn’t say it again. His lips thin. “I will issue a- a decree,” he says, and instantly regrets how it makes him sound like some sort of ruler. “That no-one in or being harboured by the Inquisition is allowed to discriminate anyone for something they can’t help being.”</p><p>Dorian’s mask slips again. It’s been slipping throughout the conversation, but this time Leto gets a real glimpse as Dorian stares at him, his eyes wide, his throat clicking as he swallows.</p><p>Then Dorian clears his throat and it’s gone. He gives a nod that tries for casual and ends up tight. “A worthy decree.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Later, Leto will not be able to say where it started.

In Alexius’ throne room, perhaps, as he watched a slice of lightning miss Dorian by inches, the flash bringing Dorian’s face into stark relief: gritted teeth, the concentration of the fight muddled in with something else that rears up when Dorian almost trips over Felix’s corpse as he’s aiming a fireball.

Or maybe in Haven: Dorian’s nose wrinkling as he brushes snow out of his hair. Lingering near the doorway at the tavern and hesitating when Leto waves him over.

It could have been the arch of Dorian’s fingers turning a page, or the creases next to his eyes bunching when he laughed. It could very well have been that time he found Dorian giving a small urchin boy the last of his gold in the Hinterlands, how he had then looked over at Leto like he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

He does not know when exactly it started, but he knows it began early and made its way too deeply too quickly, before Leto could summon the sense to halt its trajectory.

It may have started like this-

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

“He’s pretty,” Sera says, and then takes a bite of mystery meat. The next part is muffled by her mouthful and gets flecks of it all over the table.

Leto is one drink away from being the kind of bleary that means he’ll regret it tomorrow, so at first he isn’t sure who she means, but he grins anyway. “Crossing the street, are you? Thought I’d never see the day.”

She kicks him under the table. Leto kicks her back and grins harder.

Sera swallows, says, “The sparkler.”

It takes a second to struggle its way through the ale into the part of Leto’s brain that makes sense. “Dorian?”

“That’s’a one,” Sera says. She’s at the slurring stage of drunk, which means she’s going to be cringing away from sunlight tomorrow and will smack Leto if he dares wake her before noon. Still, it doesn’t stop her from taking Leto’s mug out of his hand- careful to avoid the Mark, as she always is- and drain what’s left of it.

“Oi,” he says, but it’s lacking heat. He burps in her face as punishment.

She burps right back at him, louder and fouler. He didn’t expect anything else.

“What about him,” Leto asks.

Sera is tongue-deep in the mug again. “Hmm?”

“Dorian. You said he was pretty?”

“Said _you_ think he’s pretty,” she says. There’s a moustache of ale-froth on her upper lip. She licks it off, continues, “You’ve been staring at him since he got to Haven.”

Leto gives a distracted thanks to the barmaid who slides another mug in front of him, then asks Sera: “Have I?”

She snorts. “Only every time he walks past. Gonna make a move on him, ‘cause if you are, you better-”

Another burp, and Sera smacks her lips. “Better, uh.”

“Uh,” Leto prompts when Sera starts shaking her hand in a way he’s come to learn means she can’t remember the word.

Eventually she lets her hand slap down to the table. It jogs their mugs and Leto licks his hand where the ale spills over. It’s awful, but it’s the kind of awful ale that reminds him of his dad letting him have a sip of his own ale back when Leto was small enough to sit on his lap, which means it’s a kind of awful that Leto can tolerate.

“Something about blood magic, dunno,” she says.

Leto frowns. “He’s not a blood mage.”

“Yeah, that’s what he _says_.”

“Sera.”

She groans, kicks at him again. Her foot catches him in the thigh, hard enough that it stings, and he reaches down to rub at it.

“Don’t give me that! Make me feel like I’m five and Miss is shouting at me for flooding the kitchen,” she says, and it tapers off into a mumble as it goes on.

Leto makes a mental note to get Sera to expand on that later. “I thought you liked Dorian.”

“I _do_ ,” she says, and her mouth twists. With it, half her face follows- even the smallest of expressions take over her face after this many drinks. “Doesn’t mean I trust the guy yet. ‘S Tevinter.”

“Give him time,” Leto tells her.

She snorts and steals his mug. When she ends up puking its contents in the snow half an hour later, Leto holds her hair back and tries to blink in a way that makes his head spin less.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

As Leto approaches the place Dorian is usually found, he recalls hazy memories of Sera’s mouth moving around _sparkler_.

_Have I been staring at him?_

Dorian comes into view as the thought blooms and then dies. He’s scowling down at a book, one from the stack Leto gave him days ago when Dorian had mentioned being bored. As always, Leto wonders just how Dorian copes with one shoulder constantly bared to the elements.

At a glance to the cover of the book, Leto thinks, _ah_.

“I thought it might illicit that kind of reaction, sorry,” he says as a greeting.

Dorian startles, then relaxes when he sees who it is. It’s a small thing, a tense of his shoulders more than anything. Still, it makes Leto’s smile dim- he was never around too many nobles in his Tevinter years, but he heard enough about them to know that they wouldn’t show anything if they didn’t want you to see it, and if they did, it meant something hit them hard and deep enough that it shook past a lifetime of masks.

True enough, Dorian’s smile is hastily pulled up. Leto’s relieved to see that it looks mostly genuine. “Yes? What was your reasoning in lending it to me, exactly?”

“Honestly? I was in a bit of a rush, I grabbed the first few books I saw. I nearly put that one back, but then Josephine needed me to sign some papers and I forgot I hadn’t removed it. I would have put it back if I realized.”

“It’s perfectly fine,” Dorian says. “Well, not the book, obviously- it’s trite propaganda, but it’s quite alright that you forgot. The Herald of Andraste must be kept busy, of course.”

Leto hums. The last thing he wants to discuss is Herald business, he finds. Not that he isn’t humbled by the cause he’s a part of, but he does tire of it sometimes. “Apart from the propaganda, how are you liking it? Is it well-written? I haven’t gotten around to reading it.”

“To my utter frustration,” Dorian says, sighing, “it is very well written. It’s just the things they write that make me want to grind my teeth to the gums.”

“I figured as such.” Leto pauses. Dorian looks fairly relaxed now, but- “Dorian, do you feel safe here?”

It gets him a small, confused laugh and a faint wrinkle between Dorian’s brows. “I’m sorry? I do believe you just asked if I felt safe in the safest hold there is to be seen for hundreds of miles around.”

“Haven is hardly a hold,” Leto says. “And even a blind man could see that your presence is bound to bring backlash. Has anyone been unkind since you got here?”

Dorian’s mouth opens and closes. When his smile comes, it’s flimsier than the last. “Everyone has been accommodating.”

“Truly?” Leto folds his arms across his chest. “Because I can get people to watch for anyone who is being less than _accommodating_ towards you.”

The wrinkle between Dorian’s brow deepens. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“I don’t doubt it, but you shouldn’t have to handle it,” Leto says. “Please tell me what’s happened.”

Dorian stares at him like Leto just pulled all his clothes off and started doing handstands in the snow. “Really, it’s nothing. Some name-calling, a handful of glares. The blacksmith spat at me. It’s-”

“He _what_?”

A short laugh spills out of Dorians’ throat, cut off hastily when he sees how much Leto isn’t laughing. “ _Ahem_ , apologies. It’s only that my treatment here has been no different to anything I’ve experienced everywhere else in the South. I’m only grateful no-one has tried to attack me.”

Appalled, Leto says, “People have _attacked_ you before? For being Tevene?”

“My countrymen were not exaggerating when they told me of the South’s hatred of ‘ _Vints_ ,” Dorian says, leaning hard on the last word. On it, his smile goes bitter.

Leto’s thoughts go briefly to Krem, who arrived in tow with Bull and the Chargers a few weeks before Dorian did. Has Krem been getting the same treatment? Surely not, with his accent that faded. Even Leto had to pick it over before figuring out where he was from.

“I’m not worried,” Dorian says. “I can handle it.”

 _You shouldn’t have to._ Leto doesn’t say it again. His lips thin. “I will issue a- a decree,” he says, and instantly regrets how it makes him sound like some sort of ruler. “That no-one in or being harboured by the Inquisition is allowed to discriminate anyone for something they can’t help being.”

Dorian’s mask slips again. It’s been slipping throughout the conversation, but this time Leto gets a real glimpse as Dorian stares at him, his eyes wide, his throat clicking as he swallows.

Then Dorian clears his throat and it’s gone. He gives a nod that tries for casual and ends up tight. “A worthy decree.”

“Thank you. It’s my first. I don’t- decree much.”

“Here’s hoping you grow into it,” Dorian says. “I think you might have to do more of it in the future.”

Despite how he’s trying to hide it, Dorian is still looking at Leto like he doesn’t know what to make of him.

The weight of his eyes forms hooks in Leto’s gut. They tug at his insides, shocking in their intensity, and Leto has to duck his head before he changes the subject back to the book.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Leto likes Haven, despite the cold. It’s a community, almost- or, no, it isn’t, but it’s heading towards one.

He’s still uncomfortable about the reverence that some of the people treat him with, but he puts up with it. He’d be doing the same in their place, he supposes- after all, they’ve only heard stories, and he bets most of them are exaggerated.

His favourite thing about Haven is how many languages everyone speaks- for the first time in his life, he can walk around and converse in every language he knows. He discusses dragon-killing techniques in Nevarran with Cassandra, he asks advice on proper diplomat procedure in Orlesian with Josephine, he trades traveling stories with Solas in Elven. Talking in Qunlat with Bull is the most of a relief- he had learned it from a Tal-Vashoth when he was 19 and it has been fading from his mind from lack of use. He’s no longer fluent, but Bull tells him he’s pretty fucking close.

The Tevene is just as rusty in his mouth, but it’s a familiar taste. Other than Ferelden, Tevinter was where he spent the longest. Speaking it with Dorian is like riding a horse after spending years on foot: muscle memory takes over.

Leto is beginning to think of Haven as ‘home’ the week the Templars attack.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

There’s a man- a boy, perhaps, no older than twenty years of age. Cole, he says his name is. Something about him makes Leto’s palm itch, the one with the Mark cut into it.

“There,” the boy finishes, and points, the motion more fluid than any other he’s made.

Cold fear swamps him as he spots the torches. There’s almost an army’s worth. How are they supposed to stop an army?

It etches itself into his bones like he’s been hit with a Terror spell: the helplessness, the absolute fear that grips his tendons and forces him into stillness.

Cullen is saying his name. Or, no, not his name- _Herald_. It still rings wrongly to Leto, like he’s trying to fit into an impossible mold, like people are pouring him into one without asking.

_Swallow the fear. Swallow it. Like always._

The last few months have been the most terrifying of his life. He can’t count how many times he’s frozen up and stared with utter certainty that they were doomed.

 _And we were not_ , he tells himself. _We were not doomed, and we won’t be now._

“Arm the mages,” he hears himself say.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

It’s different fighting with everyone on his side, rather than his usual party of three- it’s a lot to get used to, but there’s no time to adjust.

The terror takes a backseat as Leto fights, which was one of the many reasons he learned to in the first place. Here, it’s a weapon like everything else, making him fast, pumping his blood with new vigour. He just hopes it doesn’t show on his face- he does a good job of hiding it, mostly, after a lifetime of it.

He jerks the trebuchet wheel into place, finally, and then leaps out of the way of a Templar sword. His hand comes up in a way that’s becoming automatic, and as he lets the Fade burn the Templar out of his amour, the cheers start up.

At first he’s confused- he’s killed a dozen Templars like this, why are they happy now- but then Sera is clapping his back and yowling in his ear, and Leto remembers and looks to where the trebuchet just sent an avalanche down onto the oncoming Templars.

Sera’s laughing, her victory laugh, worlds more vicious than her usual one. It’s loud in his ear, and Leto looks across at the rest of his people to check if everyone made it.

He’s counting them off in his head- Vivienne with the barest glimpse of a smug smile, blood splattered across her cheek; Blackwall clapping and bellowing; Cassandra with her fist in the air- when he sees Dorian.

He’s laughing, watching the mountains like everyone else, streaks of barrier-blue flickering when he moves. There’s something delightfully _alive_ about him then, no masks to speak of, and Leto finds himself breathless for reasons that don’t have anything to do with getting hit in the chest with the hilt of a sword ten minutes ago.

It’s then when the cheering dies down, fading for a second and then stopping all at once.

For a moment, like it had with Cole, the Mark twitches into Leto’s palm.

From his right, he hears Cullen say, “What-”

A dragon’s roar drowns out whatever was left of the words in his throat.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

It continues to roar as Leto leads them all back through Haven, saving people where he can. It’s easy, he tells himself, to heave a plank of wood off of Flissa and help her to her feet. Easy to get Bull to break down a door to shove his way into a burning house to get to the man yelling for help inside.

It’s easy to focus on running, on splitting a Templar’s skull, on dodging the red lyrium spat at him. Or, it’s certainly much easier to think about the dragon streaming fire down on them from above. Easier than trying to come up with a solution as Haven burns around him.

Everyone looks to him, is the thing. Flissa is breathless as he helps her out the door, she coughs her way through saying, “I knew you’d come, knew you’d save me,” like it’s a sensible thing to think- a soldier, maybe, would’ve been a better hope to send into the world.

There’s a man who gasps, _it’s the Herald_ , as he runs past, and when he says it, it sounds like _we’re saved, we’re safe now, it’s fine, the Herald will deliver us._

Leto thinks he should be grateful, maybe. Instead it hits him wrong, sits badly in his ears.

 _Don’t think about it,_ he tells himself, and throws himself at the next Templar he sees. The dragon roars again, but Leto can’t tell from what direction.

When they’re nearly at the Chantry, Sera yells, “OVER THERE,” and Leto is turning before he even sees where she’s pointing.

There are Templars, of course there are, even with the avalanche they were still swarming like rats- and in their midst, a man and a woman lie trapped under rubble with fire creeping ever closer.

“They’re our first priority,” Leto snaps at the others. “Get them safe first, worry about Templars later.”

Worrying about Templars becomes higher up Leto’s list as more and more keep coming, and by the time he gets to the man, flames are licking up his leg. He’s screaming.

“Stay still,” Leto tells him. It doesn’t help- the man is writhing as Leto drags him free. “Get the woman,” he calls over his shoulder.

Any answer is drowned out by the woman’s agonized, cut-off scream as the fire overtakes her. Leto leaves the man in Blackwall’s arms and then rushes over to the woman, drops to his knees.

“Don’t,” Bull says. He clamps a hand around his middle and pulls. “Boss, she’s gone.”

Around him, the fight is ending, but there are surely more Templars headed their way. Leto needs to focus on the fight, needs to get as many people out as he can before- before-

The woman’s face is familiar, even with half of it blackened and smoking in the snow. With a jolt, Leto realizes it’s the elven girl that sat next to the research table in Josephine’s office, the mage with a soft spot for Tranquils. What was her name?

Leto wonders if she believed he’d save her. If her last thoughts were fervent through the pain: _the Herald will save me._

He doubts it. He’s been through those sort of burns before, and the pain burns out much else. What is more likely is that she died thinking of nothing but the agony.

_What was her name?_

“Boss!”

From the tone of it, Bull’s said it more than once. Leto shakes his head, pulls away from Bull’s arm.

“I know,” he says, still not looking away. He still can’t remember her name.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

“I will give myself to save Haven.”

Cullen doesn’t look surprised. He’s one of the ones who believe he’s chosen, thinks that this behaviour is only to be expected by Thedas’ next hero. He does, however, look grave. Weary. Like he’s seen this too many times now. It’s times like these that Leto is reminded that Cullen has spent more time in his life being a solider than not.

Leto hopes his face doesn’t give away the ice thrumming through his veins. He’s shaking, he can feel it, but that could be anything to someone watching- adrenaline, the aftermath of a lightning spell.

For a second, Leto wants nothing more than the Commander to tell him he should stay, that he refuses to let Leto sacrifice himself.

“Perhaps you can stop it,” Cullen says instead. “Find a way.”

It’s a fool’s hope. They both know it. Leto doesn’t know for whose benefit those words were for.

Cole speaks up then, and props Roderick up so he can tell them about their way out. Not Leto’s, though. Leto is never coming out of Haven. He’s going to die to give the Inquisition a chance to get out.

 _There are worse places to die, I suppose,_ he thinks, over the wordless hyperventilating of his fear, which is mostly swearing.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 _Let that thing hear you_ , Cullen had said.

Leto does. There are still Templars, of course, and Leto tries to feel glad about the fact that at least he’ll be dragging them into death with him.

They fight their way down to the trebuchet, which is no small task. As Leto nears the wheel, he says to Vivienne, soft enough that none of the others can hear: “When things start to happen, make them run. Don’t let them come back for me.”

She startles. Leto’s a little proud to have finally done something to make Vivienne’s mask slip. But then her face is smoothing out under all that dirt and blood. “Of course, my dear.”

He nods tightly, casts his gaze around the battlefield that never should have been one. His people- his _friends_ \- are fighting hard, like always.

Andraste’s Herald- he supposes that, if it’s true, his prayers should be held on a higher accord than people who don’t have the Fade cutting into their hand.

He sends up a quick prayer as he hacks through a Templar’s spinal chord: _I still don’t know if I believe. And for that, I’m sorry. But please, if you are truly my ward- please, let all my people get out of this alive._

And, because he has always been a coward, no matter how many times he has tried to prove otherwise: _please make it not hurt, when I die._

It’s easier to focus on fighting, after that. At least, until the dragon comes again, and Leto has to throw himself out of the way to avoid getting burned alive.

He hits his head on impact, smashes it against a jutting rock. Everything swims, but through the haze he hears Vivienne snap, “He’s right here, he’s fine, _move_ , you imbecile.”

It makes his mouth twitch into a smile. _That woman_ , he thinks, _is liable to take over Thedas one day._

Through the fire, he can see their retreating figures, all of their backs to him as they sprint: Sera, her bow broken, her hair matted with blood. Bull, bleeding from what are going to be several new scars, still hefting his axe. Cassandra near the back, helping Varric limp faster. Solas with what looks like Leliana in his arms. Blackwall stumbling, being righted by Dorian-

 _Dorian_ , Leto thinks faintly. It’s clear in his head, bell-like, the only clear thing in a sea of fog.

He passes out.

When he wakes up, he’s being hauled to his feet, up and up by something taller than any Qunari, taller than a bear on its hind legs.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

The hours after Corypheus are fuzzy at best. When Leto tries to remember, most of it is simply walking. And cold- the likes of which he had never before experienced and would never like to again.

The clearest memories that don’t involve snow are when they found him- Cassandra’s arms as she lifted him, his head against Bull’s chest when she passed him over. He has vague memories of mumbling _blanket_ a lot and nuzzling Bull’s arm as he pulled it over him.

It comes in flashes- Dorian’s bright eyes set in concern, his hands whispering magic across his body. Cullen’s coat being draped over Leto’s shoulders, the fur weighing him down. Sera resting her head on his shoulder, rubbing warmth into his fingers.

He doesn’t feel fully conscious, not truly, until he sees the fire flicker at Dorian’s fingertips.

He doesn’t know it’s Dorian at first- this happens, on occasion, to Leto’s embarrassment. At first, all he knows is that it’s someone conjuring fire, and suddenly he’s eight years old again and howling for his parents and sister as they slowly turn to ash before his eyes, howling as fire is laid across his back, his shoulders, pressing into his forehead.

And then he’s up and fighting, because it’s what he does. He casts a look around, grabs for the first thing he sees- glass from a broken bottle. Dully, he feels it bite into his hand as he squeezes, but it falls into the background as he lunges at the firebringer.

“Get away from me, _mage_ -”

An arm comes up, blocking the glass. Leto struggles against it, but his gaze falls across the man’s eyes and that’s all it takes- Dorian’s bright, wide eyes staring into his.

 _Shit_.

Leto jerks away, starts babbling, he’s not sure what but it’s enough to get the wariness out of Dorian’s expression. When Dorian tells him to get under the blanket, Leto does it gratefully. His hand stings where he cut it on the bottle.

“Did I,” Leto says, and pauses. “Did I use Bull’s arm as a blanket? And call him ‘Blanket’ a lot?”

Dorian chuckles. “Oh, yes. You dubbed it his official nickname. You also made Cullen give you his coat, you know the one, the awful one with the scruff around the hood that he’s always wearing.”

“Maker.” Leto rests his face in his hands, blows hot air into them. When he laughs, it’s shaky. “I gave it back, right? He must need it in this weather.”

“He got it back off you while you were unconscious,” Dorian says. “Felt guilty about it, too. He’ll probably apologize when he sees you next.”

Leto makes an absent noise, and his gaze drops to the fire Dorian had been trying to stoke before Leto attacked him. For years after his family burned, he couldn’t handle the smell of meat cooking, let alone the sight of a fire. He can do that now, at least.

“Dorian.”

Dorian looks over at him. “Yes?”

Leto tries to look as trustworthy as possible. He doesn’t know how well he succeeds. “I don’t feel that way. About mages. I haven’t for a very long time.”

 _A very long time_. Leto thinks of Alyssa, most likely still in Tevinter, a mage turned Tranquil. Even though she was Tranquil, Leto hadn’t gone in a room alone with her until he had spent six months under the same roof.

“I know,” Dorian says. “I feel like I would have noticed by now, if you thought otherwise.”

“Good,” Leto says. It’s quiet. Leto isn’t sure Dorian hears it at first, but then Dorian nods.

Dorian is beautiful in the firelight, Leto notes. It softens his edges.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Leto leads them to Skyhold.

Or, Solas leads them to Skyhold and they both let everyone believe Leto did it, because Leto is turning into more of a symbol every day now. Not Leto, exactly- most of them don’t even know his name.

But the _Herald_ , they know. _The Herald of Andraste, sent in our time of need to save us all._ That’s what they are saying about Leto now.

They say, _he walked from the Fade and caged it in his hand._

They say, _he’s the only one with the power to close rifts._

They say, _he will save Thedas._

When they make Leto the Inquisitor, he’s by no means shocked. And he’s- perhaps less reluctant, after what happened at Haven. People need to have faith in something. If it’s him, who is he to take that hope from them?

“We will do this as a whole,” he calls across the courtyard as he hefts the sword. “No man or woman’s effort will be in vain. Together, we will defeat Corypheus and bring peace to Thedas.”

The cheers are deafening, and Leto smiles, half because it’s expected, because he has to appear the confident, fearless leader they all believe him to be- and half because the sky is clear blue and the sun is glinting off his sword  and everyone he cares about is in his sight. For a moment he lets himself believe that he is the Herald, that Andraste sent him to lead the Inquisition to victory, that this will all be okay.


	2. Chapter 2

That night, Leto goes to see their new tavern. It’s larger than the one in Haven, but everything is bigger than it was in Haven.

The first familiar face he sees is Sera, whose face splits in a broad grin when she meets his gaze. She comes over, slings her arm over his shoulder.

“Ahhhhh, the mighty Inquisitor graces us with his presence!” She swings her free arm out like she’s addressing the rest of the tavern.

Leto hunches down into her arm, hoping no-one heard her. So far, no-one’s looking their way. “Sera, I was hoping not to get bowed at tonight. I even took off the Skyhold pyjamas and everything.”

“Yeah, those were awful.” Sera flicks at his ever-present scarf, then drags him over to the nearest table by it. “Two of your finest ales,” she tells the barkeep, who grunts.

Sera turns to Leto. “Three coppers says it’s the same swill they had at Haven.”

“Done,” Leto says. He leans back in his chair, then regrets it as it starts to wobble.

“Oh, yeah, that one’s got three legs.”

Leto rocks back into place. “Gee, thanks for the warning.”

“Youuuu’re welcome,” Sera says, then beams.

Leto can’t help but grin back. Sera had been his very first- and very best, now- friend after he stumbled out of the Fade, even if he had gotten them off to the wrong start by greeting her in elven.

She had blinked at him, her nose and eyebrows scrunching. “What,” she had said back, Ferelden-clunky to the point where it came out as _wot_.

“Oh,” Leto had said. “Well, that’s what I get for assuming, I guess.”

They ended up in one of Val Royeaux’s inns, where Sera drank Leto under the table and then joined him in vomiting in the street for half an hour. It nearly got them arrested before Josephine bailed them out: Leto still hasn’t forgotten her face when she walked in on the new recruit handcuffed along with the Herald of Andraste, both punch-drunk, stinking of vomit and giggling too hard to speak.

Leto’s shaken out of his thoughts when two wooden mugs are placed in front of them. He and Sera take them wordlessly, then chug half of it.

“Ugh, yeah, okay,” Sera says when she comes up for air. She holds out the hand that isn’t holding her ale. “Three coppers, pay up.”

Leto digs in his pocket. This is what he likes about Sera, really- she never once treated him like he was anything other than Leto, dork and slight coward who fell into leadership and gets into bets he knows he’s going to lose just for the fun of it.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Leto had found out early that Dorian was a brilliant person to research with. In Haven, they had poured over time-travel theories and discussed them until the first morning light broke the sky.

In Skyhold, however, it’s mostly about archdemons, Tevinter history, and how to kill very powerful things who want to kill you right back.

“I have absolutely no idea how we’re going to do this,” Leto tells him one day during the first month settling into Skyhold.

Dorian looks over at him. There are papers spread about the floor; Leto thinks he might be sitting on one of them.

“What, kill Corypheus?”

Leto waves his hand. “Take down his forces. Kill his archdemon. Somehow figure out what his endgame is. Find out why and how I got the Mark. A hundred other things, all of which seem very distant and impossible.”

“Well,” Dorian says, after a pause, “You aren’t doing all of that yourself. We have the best resources to aid you, and the very best people in the South to support you in your cause.”

“Our cause.”

“Our cause,” Dorian corrects. He sighs. “That did actually sound like you were doing this yourself, sorry.”

“Mm.” Leto toys with a chess piece. They had been playing it, hours ago, before one of them had mentioned a theory they heard about as a teenager, which had spawned a loud, frenzied debate followed by getting a messenger to pull as many resources on the subject as they could find.

“If we really succeed in this- do you think they’ll honor everyone else’s’ effort? When the stories are told, will they tell of how much help I had in this?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Dorian says. Then, when Leto gives him a look, he laughs. “Inquisitor, we never hear about all the messengers who made communication possible. We don’t hear about the foot soldiers who give their lives to give the hero cover. We hear about the hero in the final battle, striking down the beast with one blow.”

Leto tries to imagine it, but comes up grasping air. “We should hear about those people. All of them. And I’ve asked you too many times to call me Leto.”

“You are far too idealistic,” Dorian tells him. “Leto,” he adds.

Leto rolls his eyes. “Says Mr. Tevinter-Can-Be-Saved.”

It gets Dorian frowning. “You said you are with me in that belief.”

“I am. I’m simply pointing out that if I’m idealistic, so are you.”

Dorian’s face relaxes. The hint of a smile curls at his lips. “I’m many things, Inq- Leto. Idealistic was never one of them.”

“I beg to differ,” Leto says. He looks out the window, across the courtyard. It’s evening, a cool one, and the sun will be setting soon. It sends golden light to splay out across the floor, across the papers, across their bodies. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Anything in particular?”

“I’ll be a legend, if we manage to pull this off.” Leto rubs absently at the Mark; presses it into the carpet. Green filters out from under his fingers. “People will tell stories.”

“Of course,” Dorian says, like he’s waiting for more.

Leto tears his eyes away from the skyline, back to Dorian. He’s more casual now, as he has been since getting to Skyhold. There’s even a hint of his chest visible, the top button of his shirt undone, and his hair is rumpled.

Not quite the mask that he put on when they first met, and for many weeks after.

Leto can’t help but feel honored that Dorian trusts him enough to let the mask slip, even if it’s slight.

“I keep imagining it like the stories they always tell,” Leto says. “Do you think they- the heroes, do you think they knew, when it was happening, what moments would be told generations after they passed? The things that would be told?”

Again, he tries to picture defeating Corypheus, the same way he imagines the fight of the Hero of Ferelden against the Fifth Blight, the same way he imagines Hawke taking down Meredith. Big and bold and legendary, the stuff of stories: the stories that stay.

He thinks back to Andraste on the pyre, the flames on her skin. Did the people watching ever know that one day she would be considered holy? That there would be statues, that people would pray at her feet, kiss the hem of her granite dress?

Did she know it herself?

 _Nothing I’ve done has felt like legend_ , Leto thinks. Then the thought is instantly gone- there had been fragments of it, perhaps. Stutters of _this is important, this means something_ thrumming through him like blood.

Standing in front of a long-dead magister with a sword in his shaking hands.

Green light sparking from his hand and healing the sky.

Stumbling into the camp after Haven was buried, the hushed whispers of _he’s alive, it’s a miracle_ in his ears.

“You’ll be there with me, won’t you?”

Dorian says, “Pardon?”

“In the big bits,” Leto elaborates. “The ones that will live on in stories.”

Dorian’s face flickers before it settles into a smile. “I will be here as long as you will have me,” he says after a moment, and Leto’s breath hitches in his throat.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

He thinks of Andraste as he falls asleep that night.

Leto isn’t Andrastian, per se- he doesn’t know if she’s the bride of the maker or a prophet or otherwise, but he believes she existed. He believes she tried to do good and was burned alive for it.

It makes him laugh, though he supposes it shouldn’t. Andraste, his savior, and Leto, the Maybe-Herald. Both marked by fire, both transformed by it.

He wonders if she had nightmares, too.

He lies in his sheets and tries to think of a single thing he knows about Andraste as a person and comes up with one thing: she had a Malabari. And even that is arguable. Still, it’s the one thing- Leto doesn’t know her race, or what her voice sounded like, or even her appearance.

She must have had people she cared about, Leto figures. What about them? Were they there when her pyre was lit? Did they weep and struggle towards her, only to be held back by the guards?

Did Andraste have a lover? Were they angry when they realized that only in death was Andraste recognized as the miracle she was?

Leto would be angry, he thinks. Everyone worshipping cold stone and marble when he knew the real thing, when he knew how they brushed their hair or snorted when they laughed.

He doesn’t dare voice it, but his deepest hope about her is that Andraste was an ordinary person, nothing holy in her at all. No divine destiny. Just a woman who made a choice to become part of something bigger.

He wonders if she felt betrayed, at the end. She believed in the Maker, after all. Surely she would resent Them for leading her to this. Was she scared, when the flames started climbing her dress?

 _I hope it did not hurt too much_ , Leto thinks. He sends it to wherever she is, if she is somewhere. _I hope it was over quickly._

There are versions of her story where she did not burn, where she instead ascended from the stake into heavens in a stream of light, and despite how much Leto would like to believe them, he can’ t bring himself to believe any version that didn’t have her suffer first, that didn’t have her skin peel away in the flames.

Leto takes a bracing breath. He rubs his thumb against the Mark.

 _I wish I could know you_ , he thinks. _I wish I would have known you as a person. I like to think we could have been friends. Are you angry, that none of us know you as anything but a symbol, that we twist it to suit whatever we like?_

Andraste doesn’t answer, and Leto doesn’t expect her to.

He dreams of that hand reaching towards his, just before he fell from the Fade. In his dreams, the woman’s face goes from marble to skin.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Leto learned a lot in Tevinter- how to pick pockets, how to speak Tevene, among other things.

One thing he learned was that same-gender relationships were frowned upon in Tevinter, especially in the upper classes.

So it makes sense when Dorian ignores him for a day after Leto walks in on him sucking a new recruit’s cock.

For a moment, Leto is surprised into stillness. His eyes zero in on Dorian’s lips, which are stretched around the recruit’s girth, giving him suction as he eases up and down. Both their eyes are closed, the recruit and Dorian’s, and they’re both moaning, though one is less muffled than the others’.

 _Shit_ , Leto thinks distantly. His breath catches when Dorian- _Maker_ , Leto didn’t even know you could get someone’s cock into your throat. Wouldn’t it be uncomfortable? Can Dorian breathe like that?

 _Nghhhh_ , says the other, less articulate part of his mind.

This is when the recruit opens his eyes and notices that they aren’t alone, which jerks Leto into action.

“Shit, sorry,” Leto blurts as sense is knocked back into him. When he’s closing the door, he adds, “I’ll knock next time I’m really sorry,” in one rushed breath.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

He sees Dorian precisely once in the next few days, and it’s followed by Dorian hastily turning around and walking back out of the War Room.

“Give him time,” Bull says when Leto tells him. Leto opens his mouth to argue, but quietens when he remembers Bull’s Ben-Hassarath training. He figures it trumps anything Leto knows about Dorian- Maker knows what Bull sees with one glance at him, let alone months spent in his company.

“I’ll give him a week,” Leto replies instead. “After that, I’m going to talk to him.”

“Good idea,” Bull says. Then he gets distracted by the woman sitting in his lap.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Dorian comes to him the day the week is up.

“Sera talked to me,” he says before Leto can say hello. “She mentioned- she told me I wasn’t being sensible about this.”

“Yes, I bet those were her exact words.”

Dorian laughs- one of his real ones, the gorgeous ones where his eyes crinkle and a lovely, rich sound floods from his throat. It makes Leto’s skin tingle whenever it graces the air around him.

“She may have phrased it differently,” Dorian allows.

Leto takes in the tightness of his shoulders and remembers an incident weeks ago when Dorian had trailed off in the middle of a sentence while they had been exploring the grounds.

Leto had taken a few steps before he realized Dorian was no longer next to him. He turned to see Dorian staring openly, his lips parted, his face slack.

Following his gaze, Leto had been confused- it had been their bartender, Cabot, holding hands with his husband as they walked. The other man had his head rested on Cabot’s shoulder, and was talking idly.

It was only when Leto looked back to Dorian that he realized it, and took the steps until he was standing in Dorian’s space again. By this time, Dorian had collected himself, and was in the middle of clearing his throat.

Not looking at Leto, Dorian had said, “My apologies, Inquisitor, I got distracted-”

“It’s allowed,” Leto interrupted. “In the South.”

Dorian had flinched, a barely-there motion that Leto wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been searching for it. “I’m aware.”

“You were staring at them.”

“I was-” Dorian dropped his eyes again. “I am not accustomed to seeing it so- openly. I was momentarily surprised. It won’t happen again.”

Then he had taken off walking, and Leto followed, and neither of them brought it up.

Now, Leto recalls the mix of wonder and fear on Dorian’s face as he had stared at the two men, and the presence of both emotions as a reaction to it make Leto’s chest prickle.

“I’m glad you came to talk with me,” Leto tells him. “I’ve missed our discussions.”

Another laugh, smaller this time. “It’s been hardly a week, Leto.”

“I missed you anyway.”

Dorian’s face flickers: wonder and fear.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

Leto holds a party for the Inquisition’s first anniversary.

He even gives a speech, which he usually goes out of his way to avoid doing. It’s short, but he delivers it with as much pomp he can muster and then goes to hide in the corner with the people who actually know his name.

Bull claps him on the back when he sits down. He slides a beer across to him, says, “That was beautiful, Boss. My eye teared up.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Does your other tear duct even work,” Sera asks Bull, and pokes at his cheek near the eyepatch.

Dorian snorts into his beer.

Leto watches the three of them- he’s been taking them out more than any others, despite trying to make sure no-one feels left out. He’s desperately fond of all of them, he knows, and for a good minute, he’s perfectly happy just listening to them bicker lazily, the sounds of the tavern a constant grind around them.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Dorian tells him when Leto is nearly finished with his beer.

Leto shrugs. “I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“You guys,” he says. He pauses. “And Andraste, kind of.”

“Oh?” Dorian perks up. They’ve discussed Andraste in the past, with mixed results.

“Do you know anything about her? Her as a person.”

Dorian looks away as he thinks. “Very little, I’m afraid. Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious to know what she was like,” Leto admits. His finger digs into the wood of the table, and he hesitates before continuing, “I wonder often if my name will be lost in the ages. If I will only ever be known as _Inquisitor_ instead of _Leto_.”

“That bothers you,” Dorian says. He had put his drink down while Leto spoke.

“Very much,” Leto says. He looks down at the Mark, rubs at it absently with his other hand. “I don’t want to be turned into a series of marble statues. I’d rather be- like Hawke, I guess. With _Tale of the Champion,_ it’s easy to see how human he is. I want to be remembered as a person instead of a symbol.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of getting Varric to write a book about all this.”

It jogs a laugh out of Leto. “Maker, no. I just- it bothers me, knowing that everyone thinks of me only as the Inquisitor. I keep thinking about Andraste when she was alive. She had no idea what was to happen, no idea to know that centuries after her death people would be worshipping at statues made to represent her. How would she- how would she feel about that, do you think? She wouldn’t recognize the statues, because no-one knows what she looked like. No-one knows anything about her other than her story. I am constantly wondering what her parents were like, or if she had any siblings. Or if she liked oatmeal, or swimming, or letter-writing. Or who it was that she loved. The people who cared for her, why do you think that is? Was she kind, was she stoic? We don’t know. We know nothing of her friends, or any others she considered close, or the people who furthered her cause. I just, I-”

He sighs, takes a drink. In this low light, Dorian’s face is cast in blocky shadows. The curve of his cheek is distracting. “It’s nothing. It irks me, is all: that my story will live on while all knowledge of Leto Trevelyan and the people he loves will fade.”

“You could do worse than have a story that lives on for generations.”

Leto shrugs. It’s stiffer this time. “It won’t be me anymore. It won’t be Leto. It’ll just be the Inquisitor. It’s a trivial thing to worry over, I know.”

“I don’t think it’s trivial,” Dorian says after a moment.

Leto watches the light touch his face, the shadows playing over his skin. “No?”

“No,” Dorian says, and swallows another mouthful of ale. “I’m sure wondering after your legacy causes less stress than worrying over how we’re going to defeat Corypheus.”

“Oh, _thank_ you for reminding me. For a second I almost forgot the impending apocalypse we’re tasked with stopping.”

Dorian grins. It’s brighter than anything in the tavern. “If it’s any consolation,” he says, “We will all remember you as Leto. Any of us who make it through this, we will think of you as Leto instead of the famed Inquisitor.”

The warm, easy contentment from before rises a second time in Leto’s chest. It climbs his ribs, along with something warmer, less calm, but no less captivating. This rib-climbing feeling causes him to be unable to look anywhere that isn’t Dorian, lovely Dorian, bright as a star and just as astounding. The fact of his fingers against his mug, the sweet curl of his mouth, the nut-brown of his skin are simple miracles, a hundred times better than the Mark.

Dorian’s smile twists. “What?”

Leto tells him the truth, because his friends are alive and they’re a year in and still heading forwards. “I am very glad to have you here with me, Dorian Pavus.”

“I,” Dorian says, blinking rapidly. He looks rather floored, but he recovers quickly. “There’s no one I would rather be stranded in time with, Leto. Future or present.”

Leto makes a noise, not quite a laugh but no less joyful. “You remembered!”

“It was a very good line,” Dorian says. His smile is soft, now, as are his eyes- his eyes, which are brown or green, depending on the light. Right now, in the low tavern light, they’re a deep green, a forest green.

Sera jerks Leto out of his musings by saying, “Oi, if you do get Andraste-famous, people a couple hundred years from now are gonna swear about your balls.”

Leto bursts into laughter at the bluntness of it; Dorian says, “ _What_?”

Sera pauses to take a mouthful of beer, gasps as she swallows. “We say shite like ‘Andraste’s ass,’ yeah? So those future-people are gonna be walkin’ around, step in a puddle with your good boots, and they’ll go, ‘ _aw, Inquisitor’s left arse cheek, I just finished paying those off_!’”

Bull shakes his head. “Better if they remember his name. Then it’d be, _ah, Leto’s saggy fucking ballsack_.”

“Sweet _Maker_ ,” Dorian says. He puts his head in his hands.

Leto is shaking with laughter at this point, bent over the table. Even as he chokes on it, he sends up a hasty prayer. He’s been trying to do it more often, even if his faith is still academic at best:

_Thank you for them._

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

He’s drunk when he gets back to his quarters that night, which is a surprise to no-one. What is a surprise is that he isn’t asleep an hour later- usually he’s out like a light the moment he hits the mattress, especially when he’s this drunk.

He’s too riled up, he decides. It all keeps running over in his head: Dorian’s glorious laugh, the passion in his voice when he speaks about something he believes in, the way his fingers curl around a staff. His scowl after being treated to one too many bland Ferelden meals on a mission. The way his voice goes soft when he’s trying to comfort someone.

Eventually Leto can’t take it anymore, and he pushes his covers off and goes to his writing desk.

He writes the first letter that night, finishes it in twenty minutes and then falls back into bed and sleeps for thirteen hours straight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

As soon as Mother Giselle’s back is turned, Leto starts the familiar route up to Dorian’s nook. He makes sure to send a polite smile Mother Giselle’s way as he leaves.

Dorian beams when he sees him, and Leto has to take a second to gather his thoughts. It helps that the paper is crinkling in his hand. He smoothes it out.

“Dorian, I have a letter you need to see.”

The words conjure up the image of the letter he definitely doesn’t want Dorian to see- the one he wrote, the one hidden in the back of a locked drawer, the one that starts with _Dearest Dorian_ in Orlesian.

“Oh?” Dorian folds his arms, leans against the bookcase. “Is it a naughty letter? A humorous proposal from some Antivan Dowager, perhaps?”

“Not… exactly, no. It’s from your father.”

Leto doesn’t know much about Dorian’s relationship with his parents, but given the way Dorian’s face pinches, he’s going to assume it isn’t great.

“Show me this letter.”

Leto does, and then he stands and watches as Dorian’s face closes off more and more as his eyes trek down the page.

“We don’t have to go,” are Leto’s first words when Dorian reaches the end.

Dorian is lost in whatever boiled over when he read the letter, but at that, he looks over at him. “We?”

“Of course,” Leto says. “You won’t be going alone.”

Dorian snorts. It’s a dismissive noise. “Yes, this _retainer_ is most likely a man recruited to knock me on the head and carry me back to Tevinter, after all.”

“Would they do that? Your parents?”

“Yes,” Dorian says. The absolute certainty along with the speed of his answer is enough to make Leto start forming a quiet grudge against his parents, despite never having met them.

“We will go armed, then.”

“Do we ever travel anywhere unarmed?”

Leto shrugs. “I’m armed right now.”

“Oh?”

Leto pats his scarf. “I have a dagger pinned in the folds.”

“Truly?” Dorian’s bitter expression falters into a laugh as Leto unearths a tiny blade from his scarf. “You magnificent creature.”

 _You magnificent creature,_ Leto’s mind whispers as he tries not to smile too hard. “Leliana taught me.”

“That does sound like her,” Dorian says, and looks back down to the letter in his hands. The furrow between his brow has returned.

“We don’t have to go,” Leto repeats.

Dorian waves him off. “No, I- we should go and meet this retainer. If it’s a trap, we escape and kill everyone! You’re good at that.”

“You’re better.”

When Dorian smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Dorian is quiet on the trip there- a few obligated comments about the wildlife and the bland food, mostly so Leto will stop checking to see if he’s okay, Leto thinks.

He’s worryingly silent on the trip back.

It takes everything Leto has not to glance over at him every five seconds.

He’d deduced from previous conversations that Dorian’s parents were less than accepting, but-

A shudder runs through him. What kind of father would attempt a blood magic ritual on their son for such trivial reasons?

Dorian is less than responsive when Sera and Bull offer their condolences- pretending, of course, that they aren’t condolences at all- and Leto doesn’t get a full sentence out of him until they set up for camp that night.

It’s Dorian’s eyes that make him do it: bone dry, unlike when his voice was breaking in his father’s direction back in Redcliffe. Bone-dry and dull, like he had switched something off, something important.

“Did I ever tell you about my family?”

Dorian doesn’t even have it in him to be startled, it seems. “You haven’t.”

Leto nods. He knows this. The only time he ever talked about his family was to Sera, almost a year ago now. He had been laughing and leaning against the wall of the tavern.

 _My sister would have loved you_ , he had said.

He doesn’t remember what Sera had replied, but her face had gone soft for a moment.

Leto switches to Tevene. He hopes a taste of Dorian’s homeland will carry with it the heaviness that Leto needs to say it. “ _Come collect firewood with me and I’ll tell you about them_.”

Dorian does.

It takes a few minutes of walking for Leto to get the words out. He tells Dorian about the bed-and-breakfast his parents used to own, about his teenage sister and how she used to tell him stories about age-old heroes while their parents were tending the business.

He has to look away from Dorian as he tells him- these are words that have stayed behind his teeth for close to twenty years, now. They taste overdue, but it doesn’t make it easier to scrape them up his throat.

It’s not even the subject, it’s the mere act of acknowledging that Leto had a family, once, a family that is no longer with him, nor with anyone except possibly the Maker, if They exist.

He tells Dorian about this one couple coming in, two men on their honeymoon, and about how Leto’s father had told them they could stay in the inn across town, but not here.

“ _I was only seven_ ,” Leto tells him. “ _So I don’t remember it very well. But I do know they fought, and my sister even got involved. She and my mother started yelling at my father about it. It was the biggest fight they ever had_.”

There’s a pinprick of pain as Leto takes the end of a branch and a splinter breaks off in his finger. He ignores it.

“I don’t like thinking about it,” Leto says in Common as the campsite comes back into view.

Dorian says the first thing he’s said since coming into the woods with him: “It doesn’t sound like a particularly pleasant childhood memory.”

“No,” Leto agrees. He steps over a large, rotting log, careful not to drop his load of sticks. The splinter in his finger twinges when he flexes it. “But it’s mainly because I don’t like to think that my own father would have disapproved of me that much.”

There’s a silence; Leto had expected as much.

“Ah,” he hears Dorian say, further away than Leto expects.

He turns to see that Dorian has stopped walking. He’s staring at Leto, lips parted.

In his head, Leto swears in Qunlat. “Did… did you not know,” he asks slowly. “I thought I was very open about it.”

Dorian shakes his head. It’s barely a movement.

“People are usually open about it in the South,” Leto says. He starts to look away, then steels himself and meets Dorian’s wide eyes. “My father was a rarity. It’s hard to find someone who cares about who you sleep with, here. And if you do find someone, then we will set them straight about it. We’ll back you, Dorian.”

Dorian doesn’t reply for a moment. Leto watches his throat click several times.

“Thank you,” Dorian says finally, still looking a little like Bull clocked him on the head recently.

Leto says the first thing that he thinks. “Always.”

If Dorian inhales like he’s been gutpunched, neither of them mention it.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Things are different between them, after.

It’s not a huge change, but it’s there if Leto searches for it. And Leto is constantly searching when it comes to Dorian: finding new ways to make him laugh. Figuring out his expression. Trying to get Dorian to look at him in that way that makes Leto feel like he’s immortal.

He tells Dorian about things he’s kept to himself for years: his time in Tevinter, the family he made there, none of whom were ever related by blood. He talks about the magister who killed his family.

Dorian knows who it is when Leto mentions the slave who killed him. He can tell by how Dorian stiffens.

Leto has read ‘Tale of the Champion’ cover to cover since he found out Fenris was in it. Sometimes- less, since the Inquisition- he skips to the part where Fenris kills Danarius. By now, he has the passage memorized better than any chant. It used to satisfy him.

Not so, anymore.

In turn, Dorian takes off the sleeve that sits below his bare shoulder and releases the enchantment he has to cover up the blood magic scars.

 _They were involuntary_ , Dorian says, like Leto would think otherwise.

Slowly, haltingly, Dorian gets out the story of his imprisonment in his own house, how he had barely escaped in time.

When he finishes, Leto reaches out tentatively. When Dorian doesn’t react, Leto rests his hand on his arm, light over some of the worst scars.

He thumbs at them gently. He’s made his peace with the fact that he’d gladly maim anyone who tries to hurt Dorian, but it’s still a shock when it floods him: the sparking resentment at Dorian’s parents, at everyone who was complacent in how Dorian was treated in Tevinter. The rush of protectiveness as Dorian sits in front of him.

 _You should never hurt,_ Leto thinks _. I would have it that you never experience any pain for the rest of your life._

It’s laughable, Leto knows. In the lives they have chosen to lead, pain is one of the only constants. Leto has a back and shoulders’ worth of burns as proof.

“ _You deserved better_ ,” Leto says instead, in Tevene. “ _Vishinti tass verdana_.”

He discovered early that Dorian’s had been lacking in affection for a good portion of his life, so when Dorian makes a wet noise- not tears, but close to it- Leto is by no means surprised.

 _Vishinti tass verdana_ \- ‘one whom I love beyond any boundaries.’

Leto hates his tongue in times like this. So many things fall from his lips before he can think better of them.

“The things you say,” Dorian says. His gaze is on the ceiling; his eyes are overly shiny. A laugh is shaken from him, trembling as it leaves his lungs.

Leto squeezes his arm.

They sit there until the sun starts to rise, when Skyhold starts coming to life once again.

When Leto gets back to his room, weary with a day full of meetings ahead, he announces to his bed: “I should sleep.”

But sleep doesn’t come. When the sun is high enough to stream through his windows, Leto sighs and gives in. He pushes the sheets away to go over to his writing desk. There, he composes another letter for Dorian and places it in his locked drawer with the others.

He doesn’t have a name for the letters, only the concrete knowledge that Dorian must never see them. Nor anyone else, but mainly Dorian- Leto would read them out in front of the entirety of Skyhold if it meant that Dorian would never find out what the letters contained.

There were occasions that Leto imagined a Dorian who would read the letters and feel exactly what Leto felt when he was writing them: pure, unadulterated love.

Pity would be more realistic, Leto knows. He’s many things, but hopeless was never one of them.


	3. Chapter 3

“I love your name,” Leto starts.

Dorian is laughing. It’s a beautiful sound, far more beautiful than anything else Skyhold has to offer, far more fascinating than any book in any library. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Leto says. He pauses to burp. “Sorry.”

“No, please, do continue.” Dorian is lying down next to him on the floor of Sera’s room, his arm pressed to Leto’s. His eyes are full of light.

Leto is struck by the urge to write it down. It seems like the purest thing in the world: Dorian’s warm arm, his eyes shot through with light, the carpet under both their cheeks. Leto could write a hundred epic poems about the way Dorian’s cheek presses into the fabric of the rug.

“Leto,” Dorian prompts.

Leto remembers, suddenly, what he was saying, but he pretends he doesn’t so he can hear Dorian say his name again. It never fails to sound better when it comes from Dorian’s mouth: _Leto_ , yelled through a battlefield or said with excitement with research scattered around them or punctured with laughter in the tavern. Soft or spat or whispered, Dorian is forever making Leto’s name sound precious.

“You love my name,” Dorian continues after he says it.

“I do,” Leto sighs. “It’s very- it’s good. ‘S a good name. Musical. Like a waterfall.”

“A waterfall,” Dorian repeats. He’s shaking with laughter, which leads to Leto doing the same. “Care to explain that?”

Leto tries, but it’s like talking in Eleven to someone who only speaks Common. He attempts to make Dorian understand how the syllables flow: _Dor-i-an,_ like water over rocks. How calming it is, how adrenaline-inducing, how achingly familiar.

He ends up just repeating Dorian’s name over and over as the room spins around them. It feels like one of those important moments, the parts that will be told in stories centuries later, like when he closed the Breach and met Corypheus.

It’s not the same, Leto knows: drunkenly repeating Dorian’s name as the man trembled with laughter beside him, both of them lying in the middle of Sera’s floor after most others have gone to bed. But for many moments it feels like something to be immortalized: Dorian’s arching laugh, the heat of their arms against each other, Leto saying _Dorian, Dor-i-an_ until it stops making sense.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

When Hawke shows up with Fenris in tow, Leto is less than surprised when only days later, he learns that Fenris cornered Dorian in the tavern. He’s surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

Hawke is shirtless when he opens the door. “Inquisitor.”

Leto determinedly doesn’t eye the man’s broad chest. And shoulders. And everything else, really. “I’d like to speak to Fenris.”

Hawke snorts. “Yeah, I guessed. Varric told him he’d get an earful from you if he did anything to your mage. Fenris, guess who’s at the door,” he calls over his shoulder.

Moments later, Fenris elbows his way into view. He gives a curt nod to Leto. “You’re here about the Tevinter.”

“Dorian,” Leto says. “Yes.”

Fenris gives another nod. This one is jerkier than the last. “He should not be here.”

“Why? Because he’s from Tevinter? If that’s the case, you shouldn’t be here either.”

A muscle in Fenris’ jaw jumps. “It’s different. He’s a magister.”

“Altus,” Leto corrects.

“It hardly matters.”

Hawke hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just, uh. Go do something. For a bit.”

“You do that,” Fenris says. A small, almost invisible smile flickers across his face when Hawke squeezes his shoulder upon leaving.

Then Leto says, “Dorian is a trusted and valued member of the Inquisition,” and the smile gutters.

“I’m sure he has lead you to believe so.”

“He has put his life on the line countless times,” Leto insists. “All of his heart is with our cause.”

Fenris makes a sound low in his throat when Leto says _heart_. His armored fingers scrape together as he rubs the fingers of one hand together, averting his eyes to the carpet.

“I have heard you are a good man,” Fenris says, and lifts his gaze. “It would not be the first time that a bad man has pulled wool over a good man’s eyes. Seducing you was most likely the first step in his plan.”

“Seducing- who said-” Leto stiffens. “Dorian and I aren’t together.”

Fenris blinks. “Oh,” he says after a pause. “The way you speak of him, I assumed- he has not deceived you into falling for him?”

Leto struggles with his tongue and finally gets out, “Dorian wouldn’t do that. Not to anyone.”

“You do not know the people who populate the high class of Tevinter. People are but chess pieces to them.”

The Mark crackles in Leto’s curled fist as he says in perfect Tevene, “ _I know perfectly well what lengths they would go to. And I also know that Dorian escaped that life as to not be a piece in a game he was loathe to play, and that he’d never force someone into anything like that_. _He doesn’t use people. He is the best of Tevinter.”_

Fenris’ throat clicks. “I…”

 _“I do not ask you to trust him,”_ Leto continues. _“But I am asking you to at least be civil and respect what he’s doing for the Inquisition.”_

Fenris’ jaw locks. “ _I will… try_ ,” he says haltingly.

“ _Good_ ,” Leto says, just as Hawke lets out a yelp. A crash echoes from inside the rooms.

“A MAN JUST APPEARED OUT OF THIN AIR AND STARTED TALKING ABOUT DINNER PARTIES.”

“Don’t worry,” Leto says as Fenris starts to turn away, his hand going to his sword. “That’s just Cole. He’s our- well, he’s Skyhold’s resident half-spirit is the least complicated way of putting it, I think. He’s human in most aspects.”

Fenris looks at Leto as if he might be crazy. “Is he a danger?”

“To you? No. He only wishes to help.”

“HE’S ASKING FOR YOU, FEN,” comes Hawke’s yell.

Leto smothers a laugh at the look of confused panic on Fenris’ face. “He’s no danger to you, truly. An annoyance at most. I will leave you to talk.”

He can hear Cole’s voice as he walks off, but by that point he’s too far away to hear any of the words clearly.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Dorian brings it up after Leto shows up to his rooms with an armful of research into red lyrium.

“Fenris came to apologize earlier,” he says, and Leto’s train of thought derails from the paper in front of him.

“He did? How did that go? What did he say?”

“As much as can be expected. Hawke convinced him to do it, of course. And Cole.”

Leto nods, sitting up and curling a hand around his knee. “I heard him in their rooms as I was leaving.”

Dorian blinks over at him. “What were you doing in their rooms?”

“Speaking to Fenris about how he treated you, of course. It was unacceptable.”

Leto keeps his eyes on the paper as he says it, unsure why until he remembers Fenris’ asking _he hasn’t deceived you into falling for him?_

 _I doubt Dorian has done anything to make me fall for him,_ Leto thinks. _On purpose, anyway._

When Dorian does nothing but continue to stare at him, eyebrows raised, Leto continues: “He has his reasons, of course, valid ones, but he was being completely irrational. And unprofessional. And-”

“You needn’t protect me from these sorts of things,” Dorian cuts him off. Both his eyes and his tone are soft.

“Which sorts of things?”

Dorian laughs quietly, casts his gaze out his small window before looking back at Leto. “Oh, perhaps the sorts of things where you come down on anyone who has a bad thing to say about me with your not inconsiderable wrath? I can handle myself fine, as you well know.”

“Of course I know,” Leto says, annoyed despite himself. “But you simply put up with it. You shouldn’t have to put up with people spitting at your feet when you pass-”

“That has mostly stopped-”

“-or cringing away from certain Templars who get antsy over the idea that you come from a place where mages aren’t trodden on!”

“Commander Cullen put an end to it.”

“Cullen put an end to them attempting to rough you up in empty hallways and defacing your bedroom while you were on missions. He can’t keep them from tripping you or insulting you under their breath whenever you pass them. You’ve given more to the Inquisition than any of them have, they should speak of you with pride, not scorn!”

His voice has risen as he was talking, but Leto only notices when he falls quiet. The sudden silence is deafening in the tiny room.

Dorian is still staring. His gaze isn’t soft anymore- there’s fire in it. That fire was the first thing about him that Leto fell in love with.

“I- appreciate your support,” Dorian says, like he wants to say something and can’t think of anything better.

 _You’re welcome_ , Leto wants to say. Clean. Simple. Not reeking of unrequited love.

What he says instead is, “You are my _vallofi_. It pains me to see you being treated any less than you deserve.”

 _Vallofi_ \- ‘highly treasured companion and confidant,’ if translated loosely. In Tevene, it’s used to describe a beloved brother in arms. In almost every text where it’s widely used, there are whispers about the brothers-in-arms being lovers.

It’s falls shy of what Leto wants to call Dorian, but it’s as close as he dares.

As he usually does when confronted with Leto’s stark affection, Dorian averts his eyes. His long, lovely fingers toy at the edge of the paper he’s holding.

“And what do I deserve,” Dorian asks, faux-casual.

Leto’s chest swells with the words trapped in his lungs. Always over-affectionate, forever elaborating when he doesn’t need to, but these words- these words scare him, because surely they would bewilder Dorian at best and sever their friendship at worst.

“So much more than you have,” Leto says finally.

Dorian exhales like he’s been holding his breath for an age.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

“You are very well traveled,” Fenris says, and places his tea down. He holds it like a noble would, and Leto is reminded of the fact that even if Fenris was a slave in Tevinter, he still spent that life among the rich and powerful.

“As are you,” Leto replies. He keeps his tea as an excuse to do something with his hands. “I heard you speak Qunlat.”

“Not as well as you, apparently.”

Leto realizes he’s kneading his teacup with his palm. He stills his hands. “I have a friend who also speaks it, if you wish to brush up on it.”

“The Iron Bull,” Fenris nods. “I noticed. He’s a hard man to miss.”

Leto nods back. When he thinks, he begins to translate a sentence into many different languages, as he often does when his nerves get the best of him. He would’ve just blurted out what he came to say when Fenris opened the door, but Josephine was schooling him in etiquette more thoroughly since he accidentally pissed off that Orlesian noble last month.

But it’s been enough time by now, surely- they’re both on their second cup of tea and have been making small chat for at least ten minutes.

“I wanted to thank you for apologizing to Dorian.”

Fenris makes a noise like he’d say something if he didn’t have a mouthful of tea. He swallows, says, “You’re welcome. I know that I was- uncouth, about the Tevinter.”

“Dorian.”

“Dorian,” Fenris corrects, albeit grudgingly.  He switches to Tevene: “ _You trust him very much_.”

_“I do.”_

_“Everyone I have talked to insist that he has earned your trust.”_

_“They have_?” It’s a pleasant surprise that gets Leto wondering who Fenris has talked to. There is still upset among the ranks about Dorian’s involvement, but it’s mostly fizzled to grumblings over the years. “ _Good. It isn’t often Dorian is widely acknowledged for his efforts. People are usually still stuck on him being Tevene, or a mage.”_

 _Or bent_ , Leto doesn’t finish. It’s not his secret to tell, and Dorian can be open about it when he chooses to, but whenever Dorian gets caught looking another man’s way, he pretends he hasn’t. When he spots two men kissing, or two women, he spares a glance around to check if anyone’s noticing it, as if he’s afraid for them or confused as to why, if they have noticed, no one is doing anything about it.

“ _Not a popular combination in the South_ ,” Fenris says. He brings his tea up to his lips and Leto remembers the ex-noble Tranquil he lived with in Tevinter who held it the same.

He places his cup back in the saucer and admits, “ _I have to say, I’ve missed speaking Tevene when I’m not swearing_.”

Fenris’ accent shows the lack of use: some of the syllables that are present in native Tevene have been dulled.

Leto looks at his hands around the teacup and pictures those same hands plunging through Danarius’s throat. He doubts anyone has told him that Fenris slayed the man who killed Leto’s family- after all, no one knows but Dorian. Possibly Sera, but Leto is less than sure about that, all he has for confirmation are fuzzy, slurred memories that fade in and out with no real substance to hold on to.

“ _We could speak it more often, if you wish_ ,” Leto offers.

Fenris eyes him silently for a moment. “ _I would like that_.”

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Fenris turns out to be-

Well, much like Leto thought he was like after he finished _Tale of the Champion_ , honestly. A bit calmer, perhaps, a little more world-weary. Leto doesn’t know if the Fenris in the book- which is based ten years ago now- would have backed down from Dorian so easily.

He makes for a good conversation partner, and Leto finds himself having meals with him once or twice a week as they chat about travel stories and their adventures.

Fenris laugh comes easier than Leto expected, and he’s glad for it. After all that Fenris has been through, he deserved happy years.

It gets Leto wondering if one day he’ll look back on the Inquisition and wonder how it all went to shit.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

“What did you tell Fenris,” Leto asks Cole the next time they’re out on a mission.

Cole looks up from where he’s been absently petting his horse, whose name apparently differs from what the stablehands insist is her name. “Which time?”

“About Dorian,” Leto elaborates.

Cole blinks his doe-eyes. “Which time,” he repeats.

“The… first time?” _How many times have you spoke to him about Dorian?_

“The truth,” Cole says, and then starts murmuring something to the horse, low enough that Leto can’t hear.

Leto huffs a laugh under his breath as he watches Cole smooth a pale hand over the horse’s mane. Despite being slightly suspicious about him at first, Cole has become a friend over the last several years.

He voices as much during their next mission after they’ve ducked into an inn to get away from the rain.

Cole looks at him, eyes darker than usual, his wet hair pasted across his forehead.  He says, “You’re like me, mostly- everyone hurting, always hurting- you had so much anger, but it’s shifted. We only ever wanted to help. It’s good, helping people with you. You put all of you in the helping, like me.”

“Uh,” Leto says, wondering if Cole heard him before.

Cole’s fingers fit around his mug. He doesn’t need to drink, he says, but he’s started joining in when they invite him. He examines a beetle that crosses the bar in front of them and a smile starts to form.

“I have missed having friends. I haven’t had any since I found out I wasn’t real.”

Leto rocks sideways to push their shoulders together lightly. “Varric’s your friend. And Solas. And we all like you, Cole. Very much.”

“I sure as bloody piss don’t,” Sera says from beside Leto. She had refused to take the seat beside Cole, as per usual.

“You’ll grow on her,” Leto promises. He tries not to let it show on his face when Sera kicks him in the shin.

He kicks her back without looking away from Cole and is about to turn away to reach for more peanuts when he spots Dorian over Cole’s shoulder.

“Dor-”

Leto halts in the middle of waving him over when he sees the other man. He’s younger than both of them, in his early twenties at most. He keeps trading purposeful, near-giddy looks with Dorian as he follows him up the stairs to the second floor where the rooms are kept.

As the door closes, Leto catches a glimpse of Dorian turning around to meet the man’s eyes with a grin. The door swings shut behind them just as the man grabs Dorian’s shoulders, spinning him to press him against the wood: Leto’s view is blocked when their mouths are an inch away from each other and getting closer by the microsecond.

He wrenches his gaze away as soon as he realizes he’s staring, but it’s too late- Sera and Cole have already noticed, though Sera is at least attempting to be subtle about it.

Cole and subtlety, however, have never gone hand in hand. “He’d rather be with you,” he starts, and Leto’s entire chest spasms.

“Sex leaves him feeling empty despite having just been filled-”

“Ew,” Sera mutters into her mug.

“-and no-one ever stays after. You always stay, you touch him like no one does. Under your touch, he matters. When you smile at him, he’s worthy and good. Your friendship and trust are honors he will spend the rest of his life trying to deserve. Your hand briefly on his shoulder to get his attention, it warms him more than the nameless men ever have.”

 _Your friendship and trust,_ Leto thinks. Right. Of course.

“Oh,” Cole says, voice pitching. He shifts in his chair. “That hurt as much as it helped. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, Cole, it was-” Leto swallows the bitterness that had swelled up in his throat. “I appreciate it. Thank you for trying.”

“Wait,” Cole tries, desperation seeping into his voice. “Let me try again-”

“Please don’t,” Leto says at the same time Sera says, “Fuck off.”

He turns to give Sera a look that she makes a face at.

“What? Demon made you upset.”

“Still not a demon,” Leto says, glad for the change of subject.

Cole opens his mouth, but something in Leto’s face makes him close it again. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“It’s fine,” Leto tells him, then hurries to add, “How’s your beer?”

Cole looks into his mug, tilts the liquid around.

“It’s growing on me,” he says, like he’s surprised by it.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

Leto writes his fourth letter that night- he doesn’t have the fancy paper from his writing desk, but he has scraps of paper in his traveling bag and he’ll make do with anything at this point if it means he’ll be able to get it all down.

He doesn’t have a name for them, not officially. Perhaps _those letters I write to Dorian while desperately hoping he never reads them and discovers how far gone I am over him._ Or maybe _my main outlet for my unrequited love that I keep stuffed in the back of a locked drawer._ He supposes both are acceptable.

He scribbles until there’s no longer that roar in the back of his head pressing into his skull and the whites of his eyes. The romance novels Cassandra gave him have never mentioned this: the overwhelming press, all over. The unrelenting storm that swells up at the most inopportune times.

Once, Leto had sat down and started off as usual: _Dearest Dorian._

Then he had wrote _I love you_ over and over in as many languages as he knew.

Unlike the other letters, those pages went in the fire.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

The Fade leaves them all shaken.

For once, Leto regrets bringing Sera, who is undoubtedly the most traumatized by the experience. The whole way home, she hardly speaks anything that isn’t a cuss and she isn’t much better for the next day or two.

Bull gets them talking about it- carefully, skillfully, as always. Never making it too heavy.

None of them say much about it, but they say enough to let them drift to other topics without it sounding forced as they lie on the floor or Sera’s room. As Leto falls asleep, he thinks the others are discussing the new sparring ring that’s getting set up in the courtyard.

 His dreams are jarring and ridden with Fade monsters. When he wakes up, it’s with a gasp and the instinct to flounder for a weapon. Thankfully, he manages to orient himself in time and space before his hand closes around the dagger tucked away in the folds of his scarf.

He’s on the floor of Sera’s room, on the rug where he’s spent countless nights over the years. By this point, the rough material is almost as familiar as his own mattress. He’s sitting up, since he usually does after snapping out of a nightmare, and his hands are braced against the floor.

_Breathe. You’re fine. Swallow the fear._

The windows show nothing but darkness, but there’s the faint promise of light down in the tavern along with the soft noises of people still moving around. Leto listens to the glasses clinking, the chairs scraping.

A hand brushes his arm and Leto stiffens despite himself. He looks over to see Dorian gesturing towards the door.

“Can’t sleep either, I see,” Dorian says when they’re out of earshot.

“Seems that way,” Leto says. “Could we head to the roof?”

Dorian glances back at Sera’s room where Sera currently has her head pillowed on one of Bull’s pecs, rising and falling with Bull’s snores. “Isn’t the roof back out that window?”

“There are other roofs in Skyhold, Dorian.”

“Truly? I hadn’t noticed.”

Leto laughs. It’s a weak one. He places his hand on Dorian’s shoulder to lead him to the entrance to the roof he’s thinking of, and remembers Cole’s words from months ago: _Your hand briefly on his shoulder to get his attention, it warms him more than the nameless men ever have_.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

They sit on the roof until the first lights of the sun start to rake their feet and talk of nothing much at all.

When Leto scoots close to the edge and dangles his feet over, Dorian twitches.

Leto turns to grin at him. “Still afraid of heights?”

“It’s a perfectly rational fear,” Dorian replies. At least he’s stopped denying it, though it took him several years. He moves forwards until his crossed legs are brushing the gutter.

“I won’t let you fall,” Leto tells him.

Dorian continues to eye the lip of the roof warily. He nudges at it with one shoe- the tip of it is burned, Leto notes.

“How’d you burn your shoe?”

“Hmm?” Dorian angles both his feet towards him. “Ah. A rage demon in the Fade, I believe.”

“Did you burn your foot?”

“No, there was a convenient puddle to put the fire out in.” Dorian’s throat works. “There were many more puddles in the Fade than I expected.”

“I never thought about how many puddles would or wouldn’t be present in the Fade,” Leto says, doing his best to keep his tone casual. He expects it’ll be like this for a while: tip-toeing around conversations about the Fade until they can laugh about it.

Laughing about it, he knows, is far off.

Dorian hums again. “Very many, apparently.”

He thumbs at his shoe, picks at a piece that is mostly ash. It flakes away, over the edge of the roof. They both watch its descent.

“I am glad you were there with me,” Leto says as the wind picks up. “There were moments when our banter was the only thing stopping me from falling to the ground and wailing in fear.”

Dorian laughs. “I must admit I considered doing the same once or twice.”

“Even though I was scared witless, it was very interesting.”

“I took samples,” Dorian admits.

Leto straightens. “You did? I was kicking myself for not doing getting any! What did you take?”

“Hopefully nothing that will cause a Blight.”

“Lets’ hope,” Leto nods. He stands- carefully, because some of the tiles on this roof are loose- and offers his hand to Dorian. “Shall we go look at them?”

“We shall,” Dorian says, and accepts Leto’s hand. He lingers when Leto lets go. “Have I ever mentioned I sorely want to study your Mark?”

“No, but I assumed. Would you like to do that instead?”

Dorian wavers. The sun peaks in his hair as it rises. “Honestly, I want to collapse onto a flat surface and sleep for the next several weeks. But I can’t bring myself to close my eyes.”

Leto doesn’t ask why. He assumes it’s the same reason he can’t.

“Lets’ go see what you brought back from the Fade,” he says instead.

They end up falling asleep on the floor of Dorian’s room, a scrap of paper scrawled with long-dead languages between them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want more of this 'verse, I have a tag for [Leto on my tumblr](http://theappleppielifestyle.tumblr.com/tagged/leto-trevelyan). 
> 
> All Elven, Qunlat, Nevarran and Orlesian is entirely made up.
> 
> here's my [tumblr](http://theappleppielifestyle.tumblr.com/).


End file.
